Odyssey

by Stan Lee

  But the wringing mental grasp continued, squeezing until that little seed flickered, then died.

  For long moments, the being that had been Andrew was kept alive by an exterior power operating the circuits that controlled heart and lungs. Probes streaked along brain neurons, selecting certain sections to revive, ignoring others.

  At last, the former Andrew’s eyes blinked open. They stared for a moment, not quite focused. At the sight of Robert, there was no alarm. There was nothing, no sign of intelligence at all.

  “You,” Robert said. The vague eyes looked downward. Enough language centers had been retained in the newly-cobbled circuits for the newborn mind to recognize a reference to itself.

  “Get up.”

  The recumbent form clumsily rose as if the body were new and the owner’s manual not yet read. Which was quite literally the case. Where once there had been a cognizant entity called Andrew, there was now a mental caretaker somewhere between an infant and a zombie.

  “Come,” Robert ordered, and the Andrew-creature shambled after him into the sea. Now came the difficult part of the capture. Swimming was almost beyond the caretaker-mind. Indeed, the caretaker was swimming in the considerable volume of Andrew’s brain.

  Robert helped until a distraction arose in the form of kaffiyeh-wearing guards firing AK-47 automatic rifles. The bullets were deflected by Robert’s shields, and he had to admit to himself that he was glad there was no more major ordnance on hand.

  Of course, Andrew nearly drowned before they got away. But Robert kept his zombie follower above water. He didn’t want to lose Andrew’s contribution to the already-small gene pool of Earth’s Masterly colony.

  Then, too, there was the horrible example Andrew would provide for the others in the group.

  After a strenuous swim, a circuitous truck ride in a Hero-mobile whose driver then had his memories wiped, and yet another swim to reenter the compound by way of the lake, Robert was back in Heroes’ Manor. He had just enough time to dry himself, don a fresh Hero costume, and meet the media people he’d invited to the estate for a press conference.

  Robert actually conducted the interview from the gate of the estate, facing a ring of reporters backed by a cordon of heavily-armed National Guards.

  “My statement will be brief,” Robert said to the phalanx of cameras and microphones. “I am as shocked and horrified as anyone at the cowardly attack during our celebration of the new Heroes film. And I cannot condone my people’s response, angry as they must have been—and eager to capture the attackers as well as ward off further assaults.”

  He’d hoped for a better response to the “cannot condone” line, but psionic sampling showed the newsgatherers were old hands at detecting “weasel wording,” which is what they considered his comments on the mental state of the rioting giants. Obviously, he’d have to sweeten the pot.

  “The result has been such public concern—” a better word than fear—“that a military cordon has been established around our home.” Robert sighed, doing his best to look concerned, too. “I won’t attempt to offer justifications. I merely ask the people of this city and state to weigh the good we’ve done for the community against the results of one unfortunate excess.”

  He was losing the media, he felt it. Time for the big announcement. “But the damage done requires recompense. I request that the City of New York commence formal charges against those involved in the disturbance on Sixth Avenue, including my deputy, Thomas.”

  That caused a buzz of excitement from the reporters.

  “Since there are no proper facilities for incarceration, I further offer that all of us will sequester ourselves in the recreational compound we built in Idaho—after paying an appropriate bond and signing agreements to waive extradition.”

  He leaned forward, projecting sincerity with all the force of his personality. “We have always known that our size and powers require more than ordinary responsibility. And if some of us are perceived as a threat, it would be irresponsible to keep us here so close to a major population center. Better by far my followers confine themselves to the wide-open spaces of Idaho than an urban megalopolis while I consult with the nation’s leaders in Washington.”

  Where I will light the fuse to let nuclear fire clear this world of most of you Lesser scum, he thought.

  Marty Burke glanced up in surprise at the female standing beside him in the empty photo studio. “I heard Robert was holding a big press powwow up at Heroes’ Manor,” he told Leslie Ann Nasotrudere. “That’s where I thought you’d be—asking pointed questions.”

  But his newsgathering inamorata replied with a toss of her blond hair. “Old news,” she said dismissively. “The backlash against the giants has too many people jumping on the bandwagon.” She had new questions now. Had the Deviants really cut a piece of building off so it fell on a crowd?

  Leslie Ann smiled, running a massaging hand along his shoulders. The muscles were tense. Jumping from his job at the Fantasy Factory to take this assignment as “creator” of the new Deviant comics had him on edge.

  She wasn’t sure exactly what Burke was creating if he merely visualized the activities of real-life characters. But he thought the title impressive, and she was willing enough to indulge him.

  “Besides,” she said, making her voice a purr of promise, “I want to meet these people you’ll be working with.”

  “No interviews,” he said, raising a hand. “We’re here to work, after all.”

  “What exactly will you be doing?” Leslie Ann asked, glancing around.

  “I’ll be shooting pictures while they pose,” Burke said seriously. “Colby wants a book ASAP, so I’ll need a lot of photo reference—getting their faces and costumes right.”

  “Sturdley says they look just like a pair of his characters—Superweapon and Vile Girl?”

  “That’s M-16, Weapon Supreme, and Madam Vile,” Burke corrected her. “The Deviants don’t look at all like them. But that’s another reason for the pictures. Colby wants to make sure I emphasize the differences.”

  He directed suspicious eyes at Leslie Ann. “You still haven’t promised not to interview them.”

  She responded with her most innocent gaze. “Do you see a camera around? I’ll just chat in between your work.”

  And get the contact and background for a killer personal interview, she promised herself silently.

  The Deviants almost disappointed her when they arrived. Leslie Ann had expected a dramatic entrance through the studio skylight. Instead, they knocked on the door, like ordinary mortals. Burke started to make introductions when the female Deviant, Matavi, interrupted.

  “You were at the news gathering yesterday, weren’t you?” she said, pinning Leslie Ann with glittering blue eyes that seemed almost frighteningly perceptive.

  “Right. I’m Leslie Ann Nasotrudere of INC.” As they shook hands, Leslie Ann had the oddest sensation. She’d spoken with rock stars, big-time political figures, hell, she’d even gone on camera with giants. But this woman made her feel... small. She’d be a tough interview, indeed.

  “Leslie Ann is a ... friend,” Burke said, dropping his voice the half-octave necessary to indicate “significant other.”

  Matavi gave them a bright smile and indicated her companion. “This is Emsisdin. I believe you’d call him ‘the strong, silent type.”’

  The alien male’s smile was just short of cocky as he took her hand. Then Burke bustled both Deviants off for picture-taking on a grand scale. First, he shot them together, flying, fighting back-to-back. “Just move the usual way you do when in a battle,” he advised. Both aimed their wrist-blasters. Emsisdin hammed it up with the bazooka-like weapon he carried, while Matavi snatched a dart from her bandolier and prepared to throw it.

  “Okay,” Burke said. “Now, Emsisdin, you move to cover Matavi.”

  “Cover?” the two Deviants said.

  “Protect her,” Burke elaborated. “Then maybe we can shoot the pair of you in a clinch—uh, kiss—celeb
rating the vie—”

  “No,” Matavi said flatly. “Our relationship is not like that.”

  Leslie Ann’s eyebrows rose. Really?

  “We work as partners,” Matavi went on. “Emsisdin does not protect me. We do not ‘clinch.’”

  “I did carry her once,” Emsisdin said with a gleam in his eye.

  “I was unconscious at the time.” Matavi said coolly. “The next time it happens, I will be dead.”

  Giving in, Burke then decided to try some pictures of Matavi alone. “I can see great possibilities in that armor.”

  Like how it stays up, Leslie Ann thought.

  Emsisdin came over, sweat showing on his half-revealed face after a stint under the hot lights.

  “Could I get you something to drink?” Leslie Ann offered.

  “If I could have some soda,” he said. “The sweeter the better. We used to have drinks like that in my home, but—” he fumbled a moment for a word, reminding Leslie Ann that this was an alien speaking. “The . . . government. . . did away with them.”

  “Your government did away with soda?” Leslie Ann couldn’t believe this. “Why?”

  “It was decided that it was ... bad ... for the citizens.”

  Leslie Ann continued digging more tales of his home-world from Emsisdin. She shuddered as she listened. The place sounded like Star Wars as written by George Orwell.

  “So your rebellion was crushed,” Leslie Ann said. “And as far as you know, you’re the only two to escape.”

  “Yes, thanks to the freak space-warp.” Emsisdin got that off very glibly, she thought, as though he’d been coached.

  “And now you and Matavi are alone on a planet of strangers. It must be a difficult life—especially if you have no relationship.”

  “We are partners,” Emsisdin said. “And now, perhaps, we are not so alone.”

  His eyes in the slits of his half-helmet grew bold as he spoke.

  Leslie Ann didn’t mind. In the course of her career, she’d enjoyed several bold-eyed men of mystery.

  “Oy,” Harry Sturdley said softly to Peg as they looked around the reception area for the law firm of Mohe, Lorenz, & Kirley. “That paneling will probably put another thousand bucks on our legal bill.”

  Although the midtown office building had probably been constructed while Peg was still in college, the satin-finished cherry paneling looked as if it had been there since colonial times. Conservatively dressed men and women strode along the thick, dove-gray carpeting as if each stride were vital.

  In his silk jacket and dark slacks, Harry felt vaguely un-derdressed. Peg’s navy “interview suit” seemed cheap and third-world next to the understated outfit of the female functionary who came to fetch them. They followed the woman’s well-tailored rump through a warren of offices, then past a sort of upscale bullpen.

  It was a large open space with dozens of word processors. The operators of the computers, however, sat a good twenty feet away, typing on keyboards with enormous extension cords and peering at the computer monitors through what appeared to be high-tech spectacles.

  “Could I ask what that’s about?” Peg said.

  The young lady leading them shook her head. “I’m afraid it has something to do with a product-liability case,” she said vaguely.

  At last, the woman stopped outside a glass-walled office with a magnificent view of Central Park.

  Inside, a man with handsome if sharp features and an Oliver North haircut sat at a desk, dictating into a microcas-sette recorder in his hand.

  “... and, since the deceased was known to deposit wagers in the neighborhood of ten dollars per week on the state lottery, we estimate a further sum of at minimum fifty thousand dollars in potential winnings lost due to this wrongful death ...”

  He turned around and smiled.

  Peg goggled. “Lew?” she said in disbelief.

  The young man clicked off the recorder. “Peg! I knew your company was in on this case, but I didn’t expect to see you!”

  “You know each other?” Sturdley said.

  “Harry Sturdley, Lew Irvine,” Peg said. “We knew each other in school.”

  Sturdley decided not to ask if there were a Biblical connection in that knowledge. Instead, he said, “I had expected to meet with one of the partners.”

  “Yes, sir, you will,” Lew Irvine said. “They thought you’d merely be sending data first. The firm will of course bring the whole of its copyright experience to bear on this case. I’m merely the litigator.”

  “When did you leave Fein, Besser, and DiRita?” Peg asked.

  “This past summer,” Irvine replied. “I got a better offer.”

  “Well, I’ve got your case right here.” Sturdley dug into his briefcase and came up with a sheaf of papers. “Here are photos of these Deviants, and comics featuring our characters M-16 and Madam Vile.”

  Irvine looked from one set of pictures to the other. “The male doesn’t look as heavily-muscled as his drawn counterpart, and the lady’s costume seems—a bit more practical.” He glanced at Sturdley. “I was thinking of contacting the owner of the building that got damaged after the bank standoff. I understand the Deviants were responsible—”

  “You want to talk about damage? Look at this? Here’s what Colby and Burke intend to do to us.” Harry pulled out a creased sheet of paper. On it was a photocopy of a pencil drawing. Sketchy flying heroes, dressed like the Deviants, were blasting back a giant in a Fantasy Factory Hero suit while on the ground a sketchier armored figure directed bolts up at them. “They’re not merely stealing two characters, but using other trademarked Fantasy Factory heroes as villains in their stories.”

  “The giant and the other person were present at the Slaughter—er, incident—on Sixth Avenue?” Irvine asked.

  “Yes, they were.” Sturdley pointed to the picture of the giant. “That’s a very bad likeness of Thomas. And the guy with the S on his chest—” He cut Irvine off before the young lawyer could speak. “No, not him. He’s trademarked by another company altogether. Nor does the S stand for Stagnator, as Colby said in his press conference. Can we sue over that, too? Vilifying a hero?”

  “What does the S on the man’s chest represent?” Irvine asked.

  Sturdley smiled as he tapped the figure of John Cameron in armor, savoring his latest brainchild. “The S, my boy, stands for Stalwart.”

  * * *

  CHAPTER 31

  John Cameron muttered something vulgar and obscene as he struggled with the final fastening of his armored helmet. Among the things he’d learned as an official Fantasy Factory crime fighter was to put his helmet with its gizmoidal drive controls on last—thus avoiding any spontaneous side-trips. He’d also learned that Argonian armor was designed for long-term wear, not with quick changes in mind.

  Since taking over Marty Burke’s office, John at least had a reasonably private place to change. But unless he wanted to sit around in his armor, there was still an embarrassing gap between Harry Sturdley’s telephoned alerts of promising action gleaned from his new police scanner and the Stalwart going up, up, and away. On several opportunities, John had been upstaged at crime scenes by the damned Deviants.

  John’s hand unconsciously tightened, and he hurriedly let go of the office drawing board. One corner was already suspiciously crumpled.

  Harry’s proposals to improve the Stalwart’s response time had verged on the ludicrous. The most recent suggestion was that John stay in his armor, with very loose clothing over it. Of course, people might wonder over how John had put on about 200 pounds over the weekend. And where would they find quadruple-extra-large clothing on quick notice?

  John opened the window, which overlooked Twenty-eighth Street. At least the sidestreet was a little less conspicuous, he thought as he scanned the area with his suit systems and mental probes. With the ever-worsening currents and eddies in the Rift, he’d decided against that mode of travel, choosing instead to exit by way of the window when no one was looking. John was good with his
hands. After a bit of sanding and oiling, the window now moved soundlessly.

  He hesitated at the window just one more moment to cover all possible watchers, made sure heads were turned, then leapt out and burned gizmo to attain the highest altitude in the shortest time.

  From high above the metropolitan area, John spread his mental net, seeking feelings of anger, terror, violence ... signs of crime.

  There—down in Queens. John banked and headed downward, zeroing in on the feelings of fear. It was an outdoor automatic teller machine with a woman backed against the controls, a creep confronting her with one hand outstretched and a knife in the other. John swooped down, grasping the blade with an armored gauntlet. Metal snapped, and the mugger was now weaponless. One blow, and the thug lay senseless at the shrieking woman’s feet.

  Then John took off.

  The next sign of trouble was a burst of rage. John burned gizmo to find a guy in upper Manhattan trying to smash down an apartment door with a sledgehammer. Inside, a woman and children were screaming.

  John tapped the homewrecker on the shoulder and got the sledgehammer in the face—or rather, on the faceplate of his helmet. He staggered back a step, recovered himself, and spoke on his exterior speakers.

  “You took your best shot, now try mine.”

  Again, all it took was one punch to send the guy off to dreamland. John heard the snarl of approaching sirens and neatly arranged the man beside the door with the hammer in his hands.

  See what they make of that, he thought as he flew out the hall window.

  Attaining a respectable altitude again, John flicked on his radio. The Queens police frequencies were dull. John flicked again, trying a new adjustment to his Argonian controls. In moments, he’d accessed Harry Sturdley’s portable phone.

  “Harry,” he said, “I thought I’d check in with you. Been listening to the radio?”

  “Actually, I’ve been fooling around with a police scanner,” Harry responded in an offhand tone. After all, they were speaking on a connection open to the world. “Nothing much is happening. The cops are chasing some guy who ran a stoplight. He’s driving an old red Impala, and just pulled onto the East River Drive at Fourteenth Street, heading north.”